


Another Story's Beginning

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24566278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Grantaire and Enjolras' relationship begins. This is very much canon-they were absolutely dating in the novel. Victor Hugo was just too distracted by the French sewer system to notice.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	Another Story's Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posted fanfic(second overall.) Please tell me what you think!

It was a normal meeting for the Friends of the ABC. Enjolras waited, stewing in his thoughts, in the secret room of the cafe. He lightened as his friends trickled through the door, one at a time. Truly extraordinary men, all of them. Even Eponine. But they were more than that-more than men(plus Eponine.) They were the revolution. They were the future. And just thinking about it, about how they would heal their broken country, and all the future generations who would learn of their victories, all the lives they would change for the better-it was enough to make his heart race. Sitting there, on the rickety wooden chair as his dearest friends-nay, his family- laughed and joked, he was reminded of it all. Why he fought, and why he sacrificed the aspects of normal civilian life that others claimed to be so fond of-things he couldn’t have, because so much was at risk, and so, so much had to be done. 

Enjolras was towed from his thoughts by obnoxious taunting.

“Look at him, being oh so wistful. Staring off in the distance, like one of those ridiculous statues the Greeks made of their gods,” Grantaire raised the ever present wine bottle-an extension of his own identity, his own arm- to his lips.

“At least I am capable of being wistful, and thinking at all!” Enjolras cried, a little too harshly. He stood in an instant, indignation etched in his every feature. Grantaire had no right to insult him.

“Why, of course, your godliness,” Grantaire stood, and bowed, wobbling slightly, no doubt from the alcohol coursing through his veins. Grantaire looked upward, and he couldn’t help thinking that Enjolras looked remarkably like a magnificent lion, with his golden mane splayed out from his chiselled features, and ferocity gleaming in his eyes.

The proud leader huffed away to organize papers, and Grantaire turned his attention to teasing Marius, who had just come through the door.

After Marius was furiously blushing, which took mere seconds, Grantaire decided to occupy his time via other methods of entertainment. He began sneaking around the unsuspecting victims, then quickly jabbing out, teasingly grabbing their necks with his fingers, cold from the glass of the bottle ever grasped by them. Enjolras forced his mind to turn away from thinking about how nice those fingers would feel, pressed against his ever-heated skin.

After earning many startled shrieks, and a punch on the arm from Bahorel,(It was just gentle enough to be friendly, and just hard enough to leave a dull throbbing that promised a bruise later on) Grantaire settled into analyzing Iliad with Combeferre. Enjolras tried not to eavesdrop as he folded pamphlets. But he did. Once again, he was reminded of how infuriatingly intelligent Grantaire was. A drunk like him had no right to have such insights. 

Grantaire was everything Enjolras wasn’t, and therefore could have everything Enjolras could not. He could live a long life, separated from the battle that was not his to fight. Maybe find love, if he could learn to stop drinking. But, Enjolras reminded himself with a pang, that was unlikely to happen. Enjolras knew, deep down, he would likely ensure that Grantaire died young from alcoholism. Grantaire had always been too sensitive, and he masked his pain with sarcasm and a bottle. The inescapable deaths of some of his friends would cause Grantaire a lot of pain.

The meeting started, and everyone’s attention turned towards Enjolras. Grantaire was relieved-that way his staring would not seem so out of place. He crossed the room and stood beside the one person who was not looking at Enjolras...beautiful, breathtaking Enjolras. 

The pain Grantaire saw in Eponine’s face, as she willed Marius to turn her way, was the kind of pain Grantaire saw in his own face every time he looked in the mirror.

“Hello, there, Eponine. What are you up to-pining, as per usual?”

“Shut up,” Eponine hissed, absorbed in the way Marius’ hair spiked, and his freckles were illuminated in the candlelight. In the way his dimples danced. “It’s not as if you have any room to talk.”

“Hey, I never suggested otherwise.” Grantaire sipped at his bottle.

Halfway through the meeting, Gavroche scurries in, and for the first time Eponine tears her eyes from the back of Marius’ head, instead greeting the young boy, pitifully small for his nine years.

“Ahoy there, little friend,” Grantaire says, briefly looking away.  
“Ahoy there yourself, Taire.” Gavroche merrily lisped, peeking from beneath his frayed cap. The boy hugged his sister before scurrying off to say hello to Courfeyrac.

Enjolras ranted on and on, occasionally summoning a rousing cheer, or a couple good natured whoops and claps. Gavroche made his way back to Eponine and Grantaire, settling on the ground before looping his skinny arms around Grantaire’s leg. They settled into one another, enjoying the view of the room, lit by the candles and the bright luster of youth and hope that shone off those within it.

The more Enjolras talked, the sadder Grantaire got, until he could not repress his thoughts any longer.

Enjolras was triumphantly explaining the plan for their next protest when Grantaire interrupted. “And that is how-”

“ What if it doesn’t work, what then?”

The cheerful mood was noticeably dampered, as heads turned towards the back of the room.

“What if all of this...is for nothing?” Grantaire repeated.

“It’s not!” Enjolras roared. “ If you don’t agree with us, and this battle we are fighting, then leave! These meetings are for those of us who want to change France for the better! That obviously isn’t you, so get out! No one asked you to be here.”

Graintare turned to Gavroche.  
“Sorry, you should probably let go I guess.”  
Gavroche whimpered.

Grantaire went to the liquor cabinet, with which he was so familiarly acquainted, and everyone watched as he grabbed a fresh bottle and sulked out to the balcony.  
Everyone was slightly uncomfortable as Enjolras stuttered through their next plans, quickly regaining momentum, though the overall uneasiness remained.

Grantaire knew he should have left-Enjolras had made it clear he wasn’t wanted, and to stay was to displease him. But Grantaire couldn’t tear himself away from Enjolras’ light. Not quite. He had for so long bestowed upon himself this closeness to Enjolras once a week, even if he didn’t deserve it. He had grown to be dependent on it, on Enjolras. He would not return, because the void inside him that seemed to fill with Enjolras’ presence was nothing compared to anything Grantaire could do that would make Enjolras happy. But just then, he couldn’t bear to tear himself away. He might as well enjoy it, for one last time.

Through the window, Grantaire peered at the dazzling sun that was Enjolras, ablaze with all the passion and fervor that Grantaire would never have the bliss of experiencing firsthand. He couldn’t suppress his admiration. He would give anything to feel that, but also, to have Enjolras not feel that. To be able to wake up every morning, and see that godlike face, and have it look back, content to just exist, with him. For that to happen though, many things would have to change. Enjolras, first and foremost. And then he wouldn’t be Enjolras, would he? No. The intensity of Enjolras, the absurdly colossal size of his magnificent dreams, they were what made him Enjolras. But oh, what he wouldn’t pay to be able to watch as age carved lines into Enjolras’ fair skin, and painted his golden locks silver. To be anything, any one other than the repulsive drunkard that he was.

Yet again, Grantaire eagerly gulped the wine, desperate for the haziness it would paint over his thoughts. They were too many and too heavy to bear alone, which is what he almost always was. He had long ago accepted that there was nothing he could do about any of it. He was who he was, and that happened to be someone that Enjolras never would-could-want.

Enjolras felt the guilt swirl in his abdomen, and rightfully so, according to the looks that the rest of the boys were shooting at one another. Still, he shuffled onward, until finally the meeting was at a close.

Before he left, Courfeyrac approached Enjolras.  
“Enj, I really do think you owe R an-”

“Yes, yes I know. I plan to,” Enjolras interrupted bluntly.

“I think you really hurt his feelings,” Joly chimed in.

“I’m going now, didn’t you hear me?” he snapped with conviction, and with that Joly and Courfeyrac finally left.

Enjolras turned towards the door, where Grantaire’s strong figure stood, silhouetted in the moonlight. 

The memory of Grantaire’s words echoed in his mind, and he felt heat rise in his cheeks.  
“Why do you come here?” Enjolras demanded. “You clearly don’t believe in anything we stand for.”

Grantaire turned shakily towards Enjolras, then away again. “I-I...I’m sorry. I couldn’t leave just then. But I won’t return. I know that none of you want me here, I’ve known for a while. I’ve just been denying it.”

Enjolras was struck at the sadness of Grantaire’s voice. Though it didn’t show on his face, Enjolras was silently panicking. Could Grantaire really just leave, and never come back? Would Enjolras forever be deprived of the confusing calmness that R seemed to bring wherever he went, that which could somehow soothe his pounding heart and simultaneously send it into a frenzy? More words echoed through his mind-the harsh ones he had yelled at the friend who now stood before him.

“No,” he said sternly. “You’re wrong. I want you here.”  
Grantaire still didn’t turn to him. 

“No you don’t. You’re feeling sorry for me. We both are.” he took another swig from the bottle. Then another, and another.

Enjolras reached out, to turn Grantaire to him.  
“R, look at me!”

“No!” Grantaire pulled away again, staring off in the distance.

Instead of trying again, Enjolras took in the figure of the man before him. This was perhaps the only time he had a chance to do so without being noticed.At one time, Enjolras had witnessed a passerby in the street glance at Grantaire, and whisper to his friends “extraordinarily ugly!” as they snickered. That man, whoever he was, belonged in the sewers for his judgement of R-a wildly inaccurate judgement at that.Grantaire was a bit short, and had calloused hands and paint specks forever nestled within his wild dark curls. His body was the squared, muscled one of a boxer. He had sad eyes, perhaps the saddest Enjolras had ever seen. They were maddeningly green. They held the stars within them. Everything about those eyes-about all of him, was beautiful. Gorgeous, even. Not that looks matter.

Once more, he grabbed Grantaire’s shoulders, swivelling him so that they faced one another. For a moment, Grantaire drank in the angelic figure before him. Enjolras stood, radiating power, in his tall, slender paleness. Roses were blooming across his cheeks, contrasting with the deep cerulean of his passionate eyes and the celestial golden waves that crowned his head. For a moment, Grantaire forgot his sadness, and stood there in awe and admiration of the god before him.

Even the gods, in their all powerfulness, had moments of furtive weakness, where they broke down, gave in. And Enjolras was no god(though he surely was the closest any man came to being one). That is why Enjolras quickly ended Granaire’s silent worship. That is why Enjolras did the very thing he had been trying in vain not to think about, not to yearn for, for...he didn’t quite know how long. He kissed Grantaire.

The bottle crashed to the ground of the balcony, shattering, as Grantaire’s eyes widened in disbelief. It was everything he had ever imagined-dreamed, and more. 

It lasted for one surreally glorious, cruelly short moment. And then, flashing through his mind, Enjolras was met with the images of how amplified their pain would be, if they spent whatever time they had left together, revelling in this glory. Was it worth it? He hesitated. Grantaire felt.

Retreating to a corner, Grantaire hid his face. Quiet, desperate tears cascaded down his face. They made him ashamed and confused and so, so sad. He wasn’t sure why he was sad, not exactly. Enjolras didn’t want him. He was too sure. But he had cried many times over that before, and this was something else. For a breathtaking moment, Enjolras had pitied him, been confused, he had given Grantaire everything he had ever wanted, and realized his mistake. And Grantaire would never have it again-yes, that was the source of this chasm of despair. The tears were ceaseless. He crumbled to a pathetic heap on the ground, trembling. He should have been happy that for one moment, however brief, his dreams were reality. But all he could do was sob at the idea of knowing the elation of that dream come true, that joy, and never experiencing anything like it again. The best thing that would happen to him in his entire life-it was now in the past.

Enjolras stood there, astonished at Grantaire. Had he… offended him in some way? He had been so sure that the feelings had been mutual-almost everyone seemed to think Grantaire was infatuated with him. 

Enjolras stood there. He had finally felt Grantaire’s cool skin against his own. And now it’s absence was almost painful. And he realized, in that moment, that yes, it was worth it. He ached for the scent of Grantaire-wine mostly, followed by paint, and cheap cologne. Enjolras didn’t care about the painful, looming knowledge that their time together was bound to end. He didn’t care about how they were mutually sentencing the other’s very soul to be destroyed, and he didn’t care that the guillotine threatened them in the distance(the threat of a guillotine was never far behind a revolutionary, never mind a boy who kissed other boys). He didn’t care, because he would face all of it, ten times over, to be enveloped in that scent once more.

Enjolras almost aggressively yanked Grantaire to his feet, and planted a hot, needy mouth over the mouth of the cynic’s. He kissed him, with all the red-hot passion that he possessed. It was quite a lot. 

Grantaire felt his knees buckle. For several moments he felt as if he was flying, though he couldn’t quite comprehend why. Then it hit him. Enjolras. He was kissing Enjolras-or rather Enjolras was kissing him. Grantaire began to kiss back, with all the suppressed longing and yearning he had been tucking away since the first time he had laid eyes on the man. It was quite a lot. 

Grantaire pulled Enjolras downwards, daring to run his calloused fingers through Enjolras’ flawless blonde hair. Enjolras locked his arms around Grantaire’s rather broad figure, squeezing the space between them until it was all but nonexistent. 

They only dared to part until it was an absolute necessity. They stood like that, gasping for air in silence, until Enjolras panted “R-” 

Before he could continue, Grantaire lunged forward, they were at it again. Enjolras desperately swiped his tongue across Grantaire's lips, and Grantaire eagerly parted them. From there, each alternately widened their mouth, deepening the kiss, until finally their tongues were continually slipping and sliding against one another, and their teeth clashed almost painfully. It was needy, it was sloppy, and it was perfection. They were flying, soaring, and all the tears and hurt and pain that they had gone through and would go through, it was worth it.

Grantaire revelled in the heat of Enjolras’ breath, in how he smelled of sweat, and miraculously in the night, of sunshine as well. He drank in the scents as Enjolras whirled him around, and backed him into the corner that the balcony made with the outer wall of the cafe. 

They both had tears running down their face-for different reasons. But something they had in common was that neither cared. They stood like that, intertwined with one another in the enchanted night air, and the rest of the world faded away. After God knew how long, Grantaire fearfully peeled away. He really couldn’t stay another moment, though oh, how he longed to! He had to get ready for his job. As he turned away, he was still breathless. The fear of never reliving this moment, that kissing, had faded away. It had been replaced with pure, utter euphoria.

Grantaire headed towards the exit, but turned and rushed back to Enjolras, who had been reluctantly watching him. He pressed their lips one last time, then once again, before dashing down the stairs and out into the street. 

Enjolras leaned against the wall, reminiscing on mere minutes earlier. He was startled by a sound-a whooping, in the street, as Grantaire sprinted off into the night. The shouts contained something Enjolras had never heard come from Grantaire before-at least, never entirely free of the sadness that always tinged Grantaire’s poetic laughter. Joy. And that’s how he knew once again-it was really was worth it. Whatever pain lay ahead of them, it was worth it to hear that blissful sound escaping R, and know that in the near future he would again hold the source of that jovial whooping in his arms.


End file.
